


(never) Cease and Desist

by earlgreytea68



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Lawyers, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-14
Updated: 2020-03-14
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:35:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23135512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/earlgreytea68/pseuds/earlgreytea68
Summary: In which Pete and Patrick go toe-to-toe over pornography.(not as E-rated as that would imply)
Relationships: Patrick Stump/Pete Wentz
Comments: 43
Kudos: 165





	(never) Cease and Desist

**Author's Note:**

> WOW, WHAT A WEEK, AM I RIGHT? 
> 
> I felt like I really, really needed some fluff. If you really need some fluff right now: here it is. 
> 
> Thank you so much to QueenThayet for looking this over for me.

Patrick didn’t go to the best law school. He never expected to get the best cases, okay? He stuck out a shingle and hoped for the best, and this isn’t the way to fame and fortune and the Supreme Court. He knows that. Still. He thought he’d get better cases than _this_.

“If my mom finds out I download porn, she’s going to kill me,” says his brand new client.

Fucking hell. This is what it’s come to. He’s defending a sixteen-year-old virgin from a cease-and-desist about _pornography_.

“Okay,” Patrick says. “Calm down.” Because he’s concerned the kid is going to bite right through his nails, he’s so freaked out.

Patrick gets it a little. The email and its attached letter are full of the elaborate legalese that big-city lawyers love to employ to make them feel like their student loans were worth it. _To Whom It May Concern, Please see attached. Best, Peter L. K. Wentz III, Arma & Angelus_. What an obnoxious fucking name, Patrick thinks. You probably were required to become a lawyer if you had two middle names, that _and_ fucking Roman numerals, like, you didn’t stand a chance.

The attached letter is on letterhead and drones on and on, quoting statutes and regulations and fucking case law, all because _Our records indicate that you have downloaded, without permission, inter alia, copies of copyrighted works Sexy Shower Splash, Pizza Pegging Party, School Slut Sundaes, and Really Really Friendly Skies_. Like, really? This is what Peter L. K. Wentz III wants to do with his two middle names and Roman numerals?

“Can you, like, make it go away?” Caleb, his brand new client, begs him. “It asks for five thousand dollars and I don’t have five thousand dollars, man! Like, who the fuck does he think I am?”

“A kid that lives in one of the toniest suburbs in Chicago,” Patrick says. He gets how this works. This is definitely a geographic shakedown.

“Yeah, but, like, I don’t have my own Black Card or anything, I’m not, like, a fucking Dobre.”

“Who?” Patrick says blankly.

“You know, the Dobre brothers.” Caleb looks like he doubts his choice of lawyer.

Patrick decides it’s not important. “Okay, whatever, if I can make this go away for less than five thousand dollars, would that make you happy?”

“ _And_ my mom can’t know.”

“Can you pay me?” Patrick asks, resigned to the answer.

“I’ve got, like, some money invested in Bitcoin,” Caleb replies.

“Super,” says Patrick. He’s never going to eat anything but ramen noodles ever again.

***

It’s the end of the month and Pete’s making up his billable time because he never does it daily and he always hits the end of the month and is like, _Fuck, what have I done all month?_ The answer to this question is always: _Nothing but work_ , but then he has to try to recreate what that work actually was. Better, more organized lawyers bill as they go. Brendon fucking keeps detailed records every six minutes and then dutifully writes them up every day before leaving for home and Pete’s like, fuck _him_ , he’s a goddamn golden child, _whatever_.

His email chimes and Pete looks at it, well-trained, Pavlovian response.

It’s an external email from a Patrick Stump, with the subject line _Sugar Baby Cease-and-Desist_. Pete purses his lips as he considers that subject line. Usually when he gets a response from one of those cease-and-desists, it’s a direct reply to the email he sent, not a brand new email like this. And this email has an _attachment_. It’s probably a fucking virus. He gets it: He’d send himself a virus, too, if he could.

Half-curious and half-resigned, he clicks the link.

_Dear Mr. Wentz,_

_Please see attached._

_Best,_

_Patrick Stump_

Pete lifts his eyebrows and reads the signature line. Patrick Stump of Patrick Stump, P.C. Huh. A _lawyer_. One of those porn-stealers got themselves a _lawyer_.

Pete clicks on the attachment. It’s a response to the cease-and-desist. It queries whether Sugar Baby Films really can prove that Mr. Stump’s client is the one who downloaded the _copyrighted works in question_. It makes a ballsy argument about the copyrightability of the films in the first place based on the questionable First Amendment status of _works designed to appeal solely to the prurient interests_ , which Pete’s got to admit he respects. It concludes with a spun-out fair use defense about the pornography being downloaded for _educational purposes_. Pete actually snorts at that one. Who the fuck _is_ this guy? Pete _loves_ him.

_Notwithstanding all of the foregoing, my client is prepared to settle this matter for the minimum amount of statutory damages: two hundred dollars. I look forward to hearing from you._

“You brazen motherfucker,” Pete murmurs, as he Googles _Patrick Stump_ , “it’s at least two hundred dollars _per work_.”

There’s not much on Patrick Stump on the internet. His law firm website is pretty bare-bones. It doesn’t even have a picture, and it just vaguely says that _Patrick Stump has been practicing law for a number of years in a variety of legal areas_. What the fuck kind of biography is that?

Pete considers, tapping his finger against his computer mouse.

“Pete!” his assistant shouts at him. “Did you finish with your hours yet?”

“Two minutes!” Pete shouts back, and replies to Patrick’s email.

_Dear Mr. Stump,_

_This case might benefit from an in-person meeting. How does next Tuesday at 10 a.m. work for you?_

_Best,_

_Pete_

***

“What the fuck,” Patrick mutters when he sees _Pete_ Wentz’s email. Like, an _in-person meeting_? He’s trying to drive up the attorneys’ fees, and since Patrick is being paid in, like, goddamn baseball cards or something, this is extra-irritating.

He agrees to the meeting, though, because, whatever, he needs to get this done and maybe if he lets this guy bill a little more, he’ll be okay with the small settlement.

On Tuesday morning, on the L, on the way to Pete Wentz’s fancy downtown law firm, it suddenly occurs to Patrick that he doesn’t even know who he’s meeting. That’s the first time he Googles Peter L. K. Wentz III. Maybe he should have Googled him earlier but he was busy trying to prepare for a meeting with a lawyer making, like, fifty times what Patrick makes per hour while having zero defense because his client definitely illegally downloaded a bunch of porn.

He really wishes he’d Googled him earlier. Because Pete L. K. Wentz III is fucking _hot_.

He’s so much younger than Patrick was assuming, based on his name and his law firm. Like, sure, young people work at fancy law firms and have ridiculous names but Patrick just was playing the odds in his head. He thought he was heading to a meeting with an old, gray-haired partner, not…a hot guy with fuck-me hair and a stupid goddamn _smirk_. Who the fuck looks like that and becomes a _lawyer_?

Patrick wasn’t really nervous before. Like. Not _really_. He shouldn’t be nervous now that this Wentz guy turns out to be hot. _Don’t be so stupid, Patrick_ , he tells himself firmly.

The building has security, of course. Patrick has to give his name and show his ID and get a little sticker badge to wear. Patrick’s office also has security: a lock that he’s pretty sure could be picked in two seconds flat. _Whatever_. He’s getting in his own head. He stands in the express elevator to the top of the building and watches the television. It might snow tomorrow, and a crocodile was found in a toilet in Florida. Cool.

A receptionist – yes, of course the law firm has a receptionist, like, other law firms have _employees_ , Patrick is aware of this – leads Patrick to a conference room that overlooks Lake Michigan and asks him if he wants coffee.

“No, I’m good,” Patrick says, and then immediately regrets that but the receptionist is already gone.

Patrick stands and looks out the window and does not feel _at all_ nervous.

The door opens and closes behind him and Patrick turns to meet Peter L. K. Wentz III in the flesh.

He’s dressed in a well-tailored suit – because he can afford well-tailored suits – and his dark hair is perfectly, artfully tousled, and he’s holding a Redweld tucked under his arm and a coffee in his left hand and he’s already saying, “Patrick? I’m Pete,” with his right hand extended for shaking, and then he kind of…stalls, staring at him.

Patrick feels self-conscious. It’s probably his fedora. He probably should have left off the fedora. But he’d felt like he needed to dress up a little bit for this meeting, and the only thing the could possibly improve his off-the-rack suit was his fedora. “Hi?” Patrick says uncertainly, letting go of Pete’s frozen hand.

“Yeah,” Pete says, and blinks, and clears his throat. “Hi. Um.” He looks thrown, and he’s here on his home turf, so Patrick doesn’t get what’s going on. “Did they ask if you wanted coffee?”

“Yeah,” Patrick says, “I’m good.” Why does he keep saying that when he really wants coffee!

“You sure?” says Pete.

“Yeah,” says Patrick, and then, “No. Wait. I don’t know why I keep saying this. I’d love some coffee.”

Pete doesn’t look like he thinks Patrick is crazy, probably because he’s acting so strangely himself. He says, “Yup, I can get you coffee,” and practically bounds out of the room.

_Okay?_ thinks Patrick, phenomenally confused.

Pete comes back with coffee and looking less flustered. He hands it to Patrick and says, “Please, have a seat,” gesturing to the conference table.

Patrick has a seat.

So does Pete. He opens his Redweld and takes a huge sheaf of papers out of it. Like, what the fuck, it’s a case about a kid downloading a few pieces of porn, Patrick’s got, like, four pieces of paper associated with it.

Pete glances at the top paper, with a flicker of a frown, like he is a Very Serious Lawyer. Then he says, “So, your client….”

“My client,” Patrick repeats, unsure where this is going.

Pete looks up at him. “What’s his name?”

“My client?”

“Yeah.”

“Caleb Simmons.”

“Caleb Simmons,” Pete says, and makes a note on his paper. “What’s he do?”

“Do?”

“For a living?”

Patrick bristles. “Why is this relevant? So you can figure out how much money to extort from him?”

“Wow,” says Pete, lifting his eyebrows at him, “I was just asking a question. So he’s unemployed and living in his mom’s basement. Got it.”

“He’s a kid,” retorts Patrick.

“A kid?” Pete echoes.

“A kid. He’s sixteen.”

There’s a moment of silence. Pete says, “Sooooo your defense is you don’t think I’m going to be able to prove that a sixteen-year-old boy downloaded some porn?”

Patrick pauses. Oops. Then he says loftily, “You’ll notice that we have _many_ defenses.”

“Yes.” Pete shuffles his papers, pulls one out, scans it. “One of your defenses is that the use was ‘educational.’” Pete looks up at Patrick, and his lips are twitching with a smile. It’s _annoying_. “I’m guessing he wanted to know what went where.”

“Look,” Patrick says hotly, “he’s a kid and this is extortion. Can you take a couple hundred dollars and be done with it?”

Pete is still rifling through his papers. “I should have known it was a kid based on what he downloaded, it’s _very_ basic taste.”

“Yeah, you seem like you’re probably an expert in porn,” Patrick drawls.

Pete laughs and leans back in his seat. “Eh,” he says, making a motion with his hand. “I know my way around a good porno flick, sure.”

“I don’t even know what that’s supposed to mean,” Patrick remarks, bewildered. What is _happening_ here?

“It was supposed to be kind of vaguely flirtatious and hot, was it not?”

“It was…” Patrick doesn’t know what to say, he _really_ doesn’t know what to say. “Is it supposed to be hot that you watch a lot of porn?”

Pete laughs again. Goddammit, why does he have that stupidly charming laugh? He says, “Okay, let me go a different route. What’s your settlement number?”

“Two hundred dollars,” Patrick says cautiously.

“Okay.” Pete puts his papers back in the Redweld and looks at Patrick brightly. “I’ve got a counteroffer.”

“Uh-huh,” says Patrick warily.

“I will forget all about Caleb Simmons’s research if you will pay me ten dollars.” 

Patrick blinks. “You want me to pay…less?”

“ _And_ you let me use that ten dollars to buy you a drink.”

Patrick blinks again. He tips his head. He tries not to look too hard at Peter L. K. Wentz III, because he’s too hot and Patrick kind of can’t comprehend that he’s pretty sure he’s being asked out by this really incredibly hot guy, like, what is even happening? “This seems…” he says. “This seems…”

“Like it could be fun?” asks Pete, sounding fucking _hopeful_.

“Like it’s unethical,” Patrick corrects faintly. He’s trying to remember if they ever taught him in Professional Responsibility what to do if opposing counsel is really hot and tries to settle a case for the cost of a drink. He doesn’t remember this being on the MPRE.

“Okay. Let’s settle this case for ten dollars. Pretend I never said anything about the drink. _But_. I will just casually say to you. That I am really fond of playing pool at Snooker’s after work.”

***

Here’s the thing about Pete: He’s not that great a lawyer, and he knows it. He’s good at bullshitting, and, like, that gets you far as a lawyer, admittedly. But he’s not one of the firm’s superstars. This is why he’s been given Sugar Baby Films as a client. Well, that and apparently some partner looked at him and was like, _I think that guy should specialize in porn_.

Whatever. The cases are steady and easy and Pete never wanted to set the world on fire. But when he walked into that conference room and Patrick Stump turned around and looked at him, Pete felt like he suddenly understood the reason for every choice he’d made in life that he’d always questioned: going to law school in the first place, taking this fucking law firm job. All of it was to lead him to Sugar Baby Films, and Caleb Simmons downloading _Really Really Friendly Skies_ , so that Patrick Stump would walk into his life, with his bright blue-green-brown kaleidoscope eyes and side-swept red-gold hair and blowjob lips that looked like he should have been starring in Sugar Baby Films to begin with.

So. Pete’s not sure if Patrick will show up for pool but the fantasy of it makes the afternoon fly by. He leaves early enough that he counts three different people frowning at him disapprovingly on his way out the door and he wants to be like, _Fuck all of you, I am going to meet my destiny_ , but decides they’re not worth the time.

He goes to Snooker’s and optimistically gets two beers and a pool table, strips out of his suit jacket and unstrangles his tie. Then he sets up the pool table and looks around.

No Patrick.

Well. _After work_ is a nebulous time for lawyers. Could be anywhere from 7 pm to 2 am. So, whatever, Pete will hang. He will pretend he knows how to play pool. Probably he doesn’t even look that ridiculous. And Patrick will totally show, like, _totally_ show, surely Patrick looked at him and felt the same thunderstruck sense of fate clobbering him.

***

Patrick doesn’t know why he’s going to Snooker’s , like, what the fuck is he _doing_? This guy, this hot lawyer, he doesn’t _really_ want to buy Patrick a drink, like, why would that happen?

And yet – And yet Patrick hasn’t been out in a while and Pete Wentz is _hot_ and maybe this is vaguely unethical but whatever, he just settled his client’s case for ten bucks, it’s fine.

Pete is indeed there, playing pool, by himself. Patrick hesitates, watching Pete lean over the table to line up a shot. He’s got his suit jacket off, and the white shirt against his skin is a gorgeous contrast. When he straightens, Patrick can see that his tie is off, his shirt is unbuttoned enough to show what appears to be a hint of ink, like, what the _fuck_ , he’s so impossibly hot. Patrick has a moment of thinking he misunderstood and he should flee.

Pete looks up, and Pete smiles at him, a fucking gorgeous smile, and Patrick steps forward.

“Hi,” Pete says, brightly. “You came.”

“I came,” Patrick says, a little dry-mouthed at how impossibly good-looking stupid Pete Wentz is. “Even though you invited to a place called _Snooker’s_ , like…”

Pete looks indignant. “What’s wrong with the name Snooker’s?”

Patrick wrinkles his nose.

“Here.” Pete hands him a beer. “Is that okay? You can order something fancier if you want.”

Patrick’s a little dizzy. This guy actually invited him out for a drink. Like, really, seriously, it wasn’t an elaborate joke.

“Do you want to beat me at pool?” Pete asks, pulling in the balls to set up a new game. “I am really, really bad at pool.”

“Then why you are really fond of playing pool after work?” Patrick asks, confused.

“Patrick, that was a line. I just wanted to get you into a place called Snooker’s.” Pete winks at him and hands him a pool cue.

Patrick says, “Like, for real? This doesn’t have to do with Caleb Simmons?”

“I mean, it does in that I have Caleb Simmons and _School Slut Sundaes_ to thank for bringing me my _destiny_.” Pete hesitates, then says, “Oops, that was probably too much, ignore me.”

Patrick doesn’t want to ignore Pete, not a single atom of him. But he doesn’t know what to say to being called Pete’s destiny. He covers this by fiddling with his pool cue and then blurting out, “ _School Slut Sundaes_ is a stupid name.”

“Girls in plaid skirts with lots of whipped cream,” Pete says without missing a beat.

“You’ve seen it?” Patrick says.

“They’re my client. I’ve seen all their films. Important research.” Pete says this with an attempt at a straight face but he’s got a terrible poker face, his humor sparks in his warm golden eyes, amusement is constantly tempting his lips and he does a bad job resisting it.

Patrick feels…enchanted. It’s absurd. It’s ridiculous.

Maybe it’s destiny.

Patrick manages to say, “Educational purposes. Totally a fair use.”

“God bless Caleb Simmons’s curiosity,” Pete says.

“God probably wants to be left out of the porn conversation.”

“God _invented_ pornography,” Pete says.

“Right,” Patrick agrees drily. “I forgot. On the eighth day, right?”

Pete grins. “At this moment,” he says, “I’m really glad I went to law school. And I never think that.”

Patrick knows that he blushes, but…he did not expect things to turn out this way when Caleb Simmons walked into his office. “And at this moment my favorite client is a sixteen-year-old kid furtively watching porn while his mom’s at work. Who knew?”

Pete laughs, throwing his head back, braying with delight. Patrick thinks people look over at them and he thinks smugly, _Yup, he’s with me, I made him laugh like that_.

Patrick strips off his own jacket and loosens his tie and says, “Okay, now I’ll beat your ass at pool.”

“And then you can beat it other ways later,” Pete says, with a leer.

Patrick says, “Oh, yeah, _Naughty Night Nymph_. That’s a good one.”

Pete laughs again, and Patrick settles over the table and takes his shot.

It’s a really good break. 


End file.
